


Don't Look Back

by 1f_this_be_madness



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Affectionate Insults, Alternate Universe - World War I, Anglo-Irish Relations, Banter, Battle of the Marne, Best Friends, Blood and Gore, Broken Families, Brotherly Affection, Catch me crying over Will, Character Death, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dark Comedy, Families of Choice, Fate & Destiny, Fear, First Meetings, Friendship/Love, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Historical References, Inspiration from Wilfred Owen's Poetry, Introspection, M/M, Memories, Merlin is a Sweetheart, Patriotism, Pre-Relationship, Sassy Merlin (Merlin), Scotland, Smoking, Swearing, Trench Warfare, War, When you're going through hell..., When you're on a battlefield sometimes all you can do is sing, Will is physically affectionate because Merlin NEEDS HUGS, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27230011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness
Summary: War is simple, till it's not. As so much else seems. Merlin is forced to contemplate this.(Or the early days of the Great War before, during, after the first battle of the Marne - September, 1914)Inspired byThe Great Warseries about Merlin and Arthur by SwanFloatieKnight.Check this series outhere
Relationships: Hunith & Merlin & Will (Merlin), Hunith & Merlin (Merlin), Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin & Will (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SwanFloatieKnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwanFloatieKnight/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the style of your fantastic Merthur fics, Swan, here's my attempt at one. I hope I can do justice to your head canon :) and thank you so much for talking to me about these dear fellows and firing up my imagination

_There is no going back. There is no looking back._

The French commander had said that to the BEF soon as they readied to help his men stop the Germans' onslaught on Paris. "Good," Will had cracked, his eyes twinkling with dark mirth. "I wouldn't want to anyway. Old man Simmons is prob'ly still looking fer me." Merlin had laughed, hearty and loud, deep rich sound echoing down the embankment beside which they had started. Will winked as the commander went off about insubordinate behaviour, and the pair had tried to stifle their giggles in each other's sleeves. 

But he was sitting there with his best friend, who he'd promised to stay with and look after - "If you're going to war, I'm going with you, Will" in the freezing dirt that would become mud days later after heavy rain; feeling Will's warm hand clap him on the forearm through his uniform, push back the tufts of black hair that had started growing past Merlin's enormous ears - as he's always been teased about them his entire life. All Will ever said when ruffling Merlin's hair, though he's one to crack on other things,

"Dunno how they even let you in the army without giving you a haircut first thing, mate" 

"They need good soldiers I guess,"

"Well shouldn't have asked you, then!" There are more chuckles of course, as they readied themselves to make the first assault on the German lines. Cannot have them creating two fronts "That's just cheating," Will says.

Will. Always finding something to laugh about, even in the mud and cold and strangeness of this. The fact they two really had up and signed on to the Expedition Forces, after Will said he was going. Merlin tries not to think about the expression on his mother's face when he told her he was going too. How she'd wrapped him in her arms and begged him to be safe before saying something of the same to Will, and murmuring else that made his friend's features set as he swore "I shall," to her. "I promise, Hunith."

Merlin can only imagine he'd promised to look after her son, which is why Merlin is even here, why he'd come. To watch back. Will has been his best mate since childhood, since he'd climbed over the fence - rolled over it, more like - and ever since that sort of movement has been helping him. If you're good at sneaking round farms it's simpler to crawl belly-down through rough grass and dirt, rolling out the way of bullets and shells that drop around you.

It's simple, easy, till it's not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers, this is an au of my focus on Merlin. Please let me know if you're enjoying it
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	2. Chapter 2

The German lines are pushing forward, at this rate there seem to be a couple of battalions spreading across the plains. They, looking for gainful increase to the front, are charging the French lines even as "Look at 'em, they're like scarecrows." 

Merlin peers over the edge of the embankment. Their lines have tunnelled down next to the French. Bits and pieces of conversation tossed to and fro across lines (someone's gotta use their secondary school French) one fellow says.

"Too bad there aren't any girls over, eh?" Roars from others follow that, and Merlin ducks his head amongst the whistles and catcalls that begin to occur. "Put anybody in a dress at this rate they'd look alright!" One fellow roars, and the slight young man shakes his head with a little laugh as his friend wiggles his eyebrows. Flush on Merlin's features is warring with the grime upon his skin, from his collar to his cheekbones.

They've only been in the thick of things for a month or so, and it's been something to be back with a friend from home. Merlin had gone into the city a few years for university before this war broke out and he felt he needed to return home. Good thing, too, or he wouldn't have gotten to go same company as Will. 

Even if either wanted to get somewhere, they're sticking it out together in the countryside of France.

Thing is, the whole crux of this craic, is that the Germans want to get into France from north and east, a scissoring if you will. French tell the BEF in broken English "we have fall back for days but cannot have them take Paree" (which Merlin registers is Paris. They will not allow the Germans to occupy Paris). With standards ready and information arriving that eleven of the kraut battalions broke off to head to Prussia and one of the leaders obviously doesn't think his men require food - they really do look like scarecrows, or skeletons in uniform - the group charges down the German lines. 

"We'll best them, beat them back." Will grins under his helmet as Merlin says that, works his lips to get enough saliva to swallow. Every gunshot he hears continues to sound like the end of the world, and don't start on daisy cutters or grenades. The ground flies and buckles as rapidly and terrifyingly as the backs of the horses who cannot bring their calvary riders close enough to take out the German lines. 

All they can hope is to keep pushing back, away from Paris and perhaps can force them all the way to the river.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soldiers bantering seems to consist either (from what I've read) of ragging on someone, talking about girls, ragging about a girl, or super dark humour - the latter I will attempt to include later.
> 
> I'm doing my best to discuss the surroundings of the battle and what led to it in a succinct way. These chapters are coming out shorter than I expected to have them be, so there may yet be more than four
> 
> Comments welcome and appreciated :)


	3. Chapter 3

"Ay you'll be doin' down there cutting daisies and get a haircut from the shells, eh, Merlin?" Will hisses as his friend has rolled from their place to gather up stray bullets that his sharp gaze catches agleam. Rolling booms that startled the horses and made them scream are diminishing for the moment, which got the thin fellow to work. He's quick on his feet and his bright blue gaze is sharp, so he hauls in several belts' worth of spent bullets that can still work.

Merlin rolls his eyes, whispering back "Well it's better doing this than getting meself blown up at the privy, eh?" He pinches his nose in dramatic fashion. "Whew!"

"What a way to go!" Will is laughing yet again, even as he beckons his friend to hurry up. Germans will likely start shooting again soon; there has been a halt as they've started retreating as fast as they'd come, and one of the soldiers mutters about them trying desperately to read a map. A few of the boys have started cleaning weapons up, as all-too-easy they get jammed by mud and probably almost as bad as getting one's head blown off when catching up some more ammo is being blown to kingdom come when your rifle is jammed up with dirt from the trenches your comrades have begun to dig in order to provide you with some cover. Might could be blown off the top of the trench holding a shovel.

Though of course neither of those ways to go compare to expiring on the privy. Merlin wins that one.

He starts out a little whistle to Will; and some of the other lads from their area join in. He's learnt a fair few airs and ballads from round the Isles. Scots and Irish give each other a run on which songs are for dancing, drinking, or crying. At this moment he starts out whistling 'Londonberry'.

Will beckons hastily to Merlin as he crawls before their trench and whistles _"...pluck me, gliding by so cold,"_ even as he huffs out an exasperated yet amused breath. Of course his mate is going to keep right on with the music, he tosses in what he's gathered and pipes a bit of 'Galway Girl' - which is a right banger of a tune, even in the rising dark, the misty chill that crawls across the dirt and grass outside Paris, it puts a lad on a sunny promenade like nothing. 'Molly Malone' does somethin' too, before 'Loch Lomond' brings back the sober sense of where they are, being about soldiers as tis. Merlin rolls his body over top of their just-dug trench, flying when a BOOM precedes dirt exploding and raining down on him and everyone in the vicinity. 

There are shouts and squelching of the mud below, and yet one might think the war had ended with how fast Scots hasten to join the song and have to be hushed for it. Merlin pops up, face deep brown from muck, the brightest aspects of his features are his teeth and eyes, and Will is shaking his head and blowing out both cheeks as he slaps his friend about on the expanse of his mud-slickened chest, fingers fumbling with Merlin's coat and shirt for liquid, like the warmth of blood, yet finds none.

"Merlin! Thank heavens," he gasps, staring at Merlin and then pulling a bit of cleaner cloth out of his breast pocket. "If you hadn't already been headed back over, they'd have got you! Here," Will shoves cloth at him. "Use this; you're a mess."

Merlin accepts the fabric and dabs at the skin around his eyes. "Least we've got some more ammunition, hey?" As his pale skin returns to view by slow increments, "What d'you think now, Will - is getting mud-bathed or dying on a privy trench worse?"

"...Ask me again when you roll over me tonight in your mud-encrusted clothes," his best mate retorts. Putting bullets in his gun and cocking it, ready to look over the embankment as shouts precede sounds of artillery that ring in the head and cover all with a dull roar, Will pauses to clap a hand on Merlin's dirtied knee. "Glad you rolled back over fast enough, lad."

Merlin swallows, losing the cheery aspect that he'd held to lessen concern, keep himself moving. He now only feels a cold shakiness that may yet be relief. Grasps the stock of his own weapon tight as wet tracks sluice down to clear stripes on his cheeks. "Cheers, mate. I ah, I am too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs Merlin whistles are good ones, the first are old Irish tunes whilst the last is Scottish. Galway Girl is the most rocking one I think, whilst Molly Malone and Loch Lomond are most melancholy. 
> 
> The battle is occuring abruptly - German lines had to retreat almost as quickly as they advanced because of one commander moving too fast, by all accounts I've researched.
> 
> And the dark humour has begun in earnest!
> 
> Comments appreciated


	4. Chapter 4

The first night - it's been the first they've had like this, settled to sleep in a trench that people are still digging. When boys are on watch, half are watching out for shots from German lines, others digging along the land. Brass say they're going to work to push the lines to retreat. May need to stay in this trench for a bit, however, if it's not an option to move forward. Not stay for too long, though - once the Germans get bombarded they're sure to retract the battalions who've come this far. Right? Surely the war won't last if they cannot get past. The French say this country; or perhaps Belgium or Spain. Merlin only hopes they are right, that enough men are seeing this war for real and recognising it is not what they thought it would be, or at the very least that it need not involve so many countries and casualties. So many men and boys ready to fight. Willing to die. He wonders if it's their destiny to win this war, particularly when he himself only came along to stand with Will. 

He just - he doesn't understand the fire, the absolute certainty he's heard from men about "fighting for God and country" and "sticking it to the Kaiser". What are they sticking, exactly? And what will he know of battles thousands of kilometres from his downy bed? What will he know of chill from rain and ground, that soaks your skin and into your bones? Of the rough grain of hardtack, the low ache of hunger when one is on the march to a new place, the way the earth digs against the body and how there's never a soft space, never a truly restful moment because at any sharp sound you tense and tear your eyes away from sleep or from your rifle stock to squint towards where the sound comes, and load your weapon with mouth dry and hands shaking. Clammy palms, the roaring rush of blood in ears, the crackling boom of gunfire, screams of horses and of men...

What would the Kaiser know of that? And would he care if he did know?

Merlin shudders where he's settled, half-lying in the trench, curled on his side with one hip jammed painfully against a rock - or a root, he isn't sure. But as he shudders he shifts and feels a warm hand pat him on the back. "Oi, Merlin," Will's quiet voice emanates over his shoulder. He feels his friend's breaths, can tell he's leaning in a bit. "You all good, mate? Felt you move. We c'n shift closer y'know." Will does so himself, adding "I don't actually care about the mud. Sides, you got yourself pretty damned clean."

"Yeah," Merlin nods, not trusting himself to speak more. He wants to tell Will that the reason he's so ruddy clean is because he'd practically scrubbed his skin raw after the shots had kicked dirt up. Because he thought about what would happen if it wasn't only mud that caught him in the face, but blood and flesh and bone; if someone had been right in front of him, or if he himself had crawled a little farther forward - "Oh, god," with a whimpering, retching sound, Merlin bows his head forward, almost against his knees. He's curled in a fetal position, again shuddering. And this time he cannot stop.

"Merlin, mate. I'm here, it's alright." Will's hand is resting on his back now, staying in place, warm and solid. Comforting. Merlin twists his face to look up and see Will's face half-shadowed in the moonlight, his bangs not hiding the care and concern, how his freckles stand out even in the silver gleam his features are bathed in from the light of the moon. But he shifts, pulls his coat down to tuck round them and stretches his legs. "Here stretch out with me, c'mon. That's it."

Merlin nods, licks his lips and swallows his whimper, long neck working as he rolls, slowly extending curled legs and coming up to rest against the side of Will's chest. He looks at his friend, and Will settles himself, arm around Merlin's shoulders, eyes on him. "Thank you," Merlin whispers, seeing in the arch of Will's brows and the tilting of his face a query made without words. Asking whether or not this is good, is he better. He feels his heartbeat lessening its mad hammer, and sucks in air, letting it out nice and slow. He feels his friend relax a trifle, his fingers squeeze Merlin's upper arm as Merlin curls his own into the cloth of Will's jacket, rolling his waist to tangle their legs a bit. It's a little cold, and it's going to get colder, he is sure. Best to share body heat as well as coats and comfort. He feels his lips twitch up the littlest amount as he utters "Good night, Will."

"Night Merlin," Will's voice washes gentle over him, even as he continues with a wry bit of humour in his tone of voice; there worming its way even as tis still a wish for him, for all of them serving in this war, fruitless though the wish may be: "Pleasant dreams."

Merlin's voice is thick with feeling as he responds with the selfsame wish: "And you too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's heartbreakingly ironic to me that people honestly thought the war would end in September, or at least before the end of the year 1914. When really it was still only getting started. Heartbreaking. Some of the first trenches were dug during this battle
> 
> Comments appreciated


	5. Chapter 5

Next morning, September the sixth, has Merlin being nudged to wake and ready for an attack on the right flank of the German army - "those dumb bastards crossed over the river last night an' have more'n forty kilometres 'twixt 'em an' their boyos," gruff sergeant of their force says. The BEF boys are massing up with the French; a new leader has been assigned to relieve the tried French command, and he seems to think they ought to go for the Germans before breakfast.

"Rout them all and there'll be time for champagne and crepes!" Someone cries, and the snorts about "how french that is", "best bring on some ale next, lads" is drowned out in Merlin's ears as he tugs on the strap of his helmet, crouching and stretching his lanky legs. It will not do for him to charge out of this trench and face-plant into the ground while suffering from a cramp. He will have to pray not to trip.

Will crouches with him, beside; broader body working just as much, maybe more than Merlin is as Merlin thinks his friend had awakened even before the sun rose on this particular morning. Doesn't blame him. He cannot help a nod and grin, though, his teeth are flashing as Will nudges his arm and nods with an "All right, Merlin?"

"Never better, Will. You're a good snuggler," he laughs, whistling a bit of a ballad his mother sang when they'd go out of the house early mornings when the mist was rising over fields. She always said the song reminded her of him. 

_'In the quiet misty morning  
When the moon has gone to bed;  
When the sparrows start their singing  
And the sky, is clear and red_

_Bind me not, to the pasture  
Chain me not, to the plow  
Set me free, to find my calling  
And I'll return to you somehow._

_In the quiet misty morning  
When the moon has gone to bed  
As the sparrows stop their singing...  
I'll be homeward bound again.'_

He hears the words within him now, and they tear at his heart with a fierce sort of melancholy. It almost seems a warning even as he thinks back. Feels his mother's hand cupping round his face, her thumb brush across his cheek as she tells him to be safe and stay well. The song makes him think back to the morning that he left for the war, grants nostalgia and the ache to return... but Merlin also feels the dull shock of something, the prickling of hair on the nape of his neck as he's checking his gun, loading it up. As Will readies his and all the other men do, preparing to boil right out as they're given the word. Merlin closes his eyes and breathes, gulping deeply, the apple of his throat bobbing in a heavy fashion.

Heavy as feel his boots as "Steady on! Heads up, men! Counting down to charge - hut! Three,"

Merlin glances at Will, who grips him by the arm. He blinks and shifts his own hand, slipping it into Will's and squeezing.

"Two -"

Will squeezes back. "You ready, mate?" His tone is rough, quiet. The look in his eyes is a steady one, he's working to be reassuring, but Merlin knows if he said he was not ready, Will would help. He would get Merlin out of the trench and take care of him. But Merlin needs to be strong. He rolls his shoulders, takes a breath. Tries to be, to feel ready as he rests one boot on the slope of their trench, its embankment. Hears shifts and shouting encouragement as the final call blares out for them to go for the Germans:

"One, charge!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song I have Merlin's mother sing is beautiful, one I remember from my days in choir. I believe it's called 'Homeward Bound' and is lovely when sung either with the accompaniment of piano or a capella
> 
> *September 6th - This day during the battle 150,000 French and British soldiers separated the German battalions from one another
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Battle begins
> 
> Agony of animals and humans described below. War is hell.

Neighs of horses, pounding hooves, and shouts ring first across the expanse of rolling grasses; then tis said horses and their riders that leap - along with the Infantrymen like Will and Merlin - boiling out of the so-hastily dug trenches and running for the brigade of Germans, to cut them off from their fellows. Shinking shining sabres extend as do rifles and many members of the cavalry clutch their horses with only their knees, sighting down gun barrels. 

First shots taken and heard are like the pop, pop, pops of Christmas crackers tugged with a sharp jerk to explode in a light sound, only deafening if held too close to an ear. Merlin recalls one such instance, incongruously, before the slicing of a cavalry sword sends a soldier's head one way and his body the next. Shots grow louder, and more regular; a horse jerks as a bullet flies and expels hot wet blood from the animal's chest. It almost burns, striking hands and faces, or that is the impression given off. Smoke rises from unloaded muzzle after muzzle, and Merlin feels his palms slipping on the stock of his own gun. It nearly drops from his nerveless fingers as he hears roars of agony from men and the higher shrieking from the throats of boys, his age and younger. 

But the worst screams are torn out of the throats of the horses. Their eyes roll, foam and froth flying from rolled-back lips, enormous bared teeth, clenching in a manner not unlike fury, or the terror in the midst of which they remain under their riders. Bloodcurdling screams to turn one's bowels to ice and send blood to creeping sludge. As it is, Merlin fumbles, gets his weapon up as machine-gun fire begins roaring out, and feels beads of sweat coalesce and pour down his face.

Will is shooting as he runs, legs stretching alongside, his jaw clenched. "Come on, Merlin," he grits, and expels a grunt, almost groan as if of pain and Merlin's eyes widen. They're bearing down on the German lines, who've retreated to the shores of the Ainse and sounds of boots splashing back through the shallows accompany gunshots and screaming -

And then Merlin, legs extended, steps -

His foot catches on uneven ground and he stumbles, pitching forward, blue eyes brightest things in his face. His vision tunnels on the barrel of a gun before him, behind which is a face no older than his, with as much sweat on, dirt smudged, terrified eyes and trembling lips. It's as if Merlin sees the trigger squeeze in slow motion, feels a weight, an arm thrown across his body and Will's voice shouting his name, and "Wotcher, Merlin!" 

And he thrashes once as the sound of a shot, this shot, this time, shatters everything. 

Will grunts again, entire body clenching, chin lifting as he thrusts himself in front of Merlin, into the line of fire before crumpling to the earth. 

Merlin drops with him, arms around, the battle and war both be damned - _"Will!"_ he screams. 

Does not even recognise his voice, so full of anguish as it is, ripping out of his throat; and all he now can force himself to do is clamp his fist over his best mate's chest and hold fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly I haven't any endnotes except to mention that cavalry swords were still used in the beginning of World War I, and to say that I'm so sorry for all of this.
> 
> Comments appreciated


	7. Chapter 7

Merlin is gasping for air as though he had been the one of them struck, even as he feels hot liquid pouring over his hand - _no, please -_

and he rubs the back of Will's head with his other hand as his friend chokes, gasps. "I'm scared, Merlin," he whimpers, and hearing that sentiment breaks Merlin's heart. Will, who has always been so strong, in so many ways, on every past occasion - for him, at present; whose laughter never wavers, even in this horrid war...

"Don't be, hey, it's going to be all right. I'll get you - inside," he looks wildly round, still holding Will up; sees there has been a rout of the Germans, they are splashing through the river and have been forced to retreat to the opposite shore; slipping and sliding, some falling, tumbling or dragged into the icy waters. _Good,_ Merlin finds himself thinking savagely, and then he instantly feels sick. Because of the sounds Will is making, but also because he has never thought with such vehemence, never felt such blinding unadulterated fury that he wants people to be swept away by a raging river, to be pulled under and tossed on rocks or into mud, to _die -_

"'Ere, lad, less get 'im up," a voice speaks, and a stocky older man, ruddy facial features and rust-coloured hair under his dirty cap, stops beside Will. Merlin doesn't know that he's been pleading, making almost as many horrendous sounds as his best mate has, and still isn't moving, only holding Will tight, pressing his hand to his chest and stroking Will's hair haltingly. 

A second man stoops with them and slides his arm beneath Will's body. "Merci," he says as Merlin shifts, and the boy's bright eyes snap up to his, a pair dark as mossy stones. Merlin stares in utter bewilderment, as how could someone, anyone even think to say 'thanks' at a time, a moment like this?

But the men help him carry Will, sloshing across the river that is so cold its waters take Merlin's breath away, sucking all his air; his boots are leaden and he feels nothing of his feet, not even pain as he forces movement from them, not ceasing to gaze on Will, not hesitating to put on a burst of speed when his friend croaks out "Merlin!" In fear when not having the sight of his friend beside him. They make it through the river to the place the German battalion earlier held, and halt under an onslaught of artillery that roars at them. Merlin drops instantly to his knees and catches hold of Will as the other men stretch his friend in the driest spot they find. 

"Thank you," he whispers, voice wrecked and cracked as he swallows tears and despair. 

The rust-headed man puts a heavy hand upon his shoulder and says he'll go for a medical man, just hang tight, laddie; and the other man murmurs "Va avec dieu, sentinelle perdu," words Merlin cannot understand, but the sentiment of concern, the fervent wish for Will to be well comes through so fiercely as to hit his chest like a shot from a cannon. 

"Merci," he chokes. "Merci beaucoup, monsig - monsieur," Merlin's tone is thick as he fumbles upon the French he knows, flushing to the tips of his protuberant ears, but the French soldier smiles kindly and presses the elegant pale fingers of the boy's hand that he extends automatically. He drops to a knee and clutches it, lips ghosting over knuckles as he bows, eyes holding both the gazes before his, as if committing them to memory before he fumbles out a bundle of cloth, mumbling something about "a billet per'aps nearby, for to get this man out of air" in a thick accent. Merlin does his best to smile and nod as the other is up and moving to ask any of those in charge about that possibility before he turns and drops to kneel once more next to Will, taking his friend's hand in both of his.

"Will," he whispers, pressing hands to blood-soaked fabric and skin and working desperately not to allow tears to fill his eyes "...Oh, Will, I'm so sorry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think fellows from all the allied groups would jump to help a wounded man on their side. Thus I have another fellow from the BEF as well as a frenchman provide Merlin and Will with aid.
> 
> The French soldier tells Will "go with God, lost sentinel" or as near to that as I can guess with my very limited knowledge of French from primary school along with the help of google translate
> 
> Comments appreciated


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death occurs
> 
> (This is both summary and warning)

"Don't be sorry," eyes clouded from agony but nevertheless holding to and focusing sharply upon Merlin's face, "It's alright," Will croaks out, holding himself as stiffly and still as he can, yet his body is shaking as blood spurts from his chest, soaking his uniform with every single beat of his heart. Merlin presses the cloth given to him by the Frenchman to his friend's chest, torn between wanting to rip his uniform away and pack the wound, and hoping the cloth of Will's jacket and shirt can staunch at least some of the flow. 

But he has to do something, something else, whatever he can - and his eyes flicker across Will's body as he moves one hand to use the cloth as best he can, packing it into the wound. He holds Will's head with his other hand and tries not to listen to his own, which is telling him that the trajectory of the bullet and where it hit was directly over Will's heart. If only by some magic or miracle - 

"Merlin," his gaze, blurry with tears that do not fall, as he's got to be strong for once, for Will, focuses on the features of his best friend. Who seems now to be... smiling. "It's good to see you again," he says, and from the soft sincerity with which he speaks, Merlin's heart shatters. That here, now, in this ridiculous battle, the beginning of this horrible war, that Will would say such a thing because Merlin came back from university to sign up with him - it hurts terribly. But he wants to give Will some sort of answer, it seems there is something he needs to hear, and so Merlin does his damnedest to smile. Looks at Will with all of his love.

"You too," Merlin nearly whispers that, and Will's lips quirk up, even as his chest is still jerking and the squelch of blood saturating rough-sewn cloth sticks to Merlin's fingers like a gory glue. 

"I promised your mum... I'd look after you," tone almost a squeak from the pain now, and his voice is getting exponentially weaker - _no, don't think like that, be strong for him, come on Merlin_ \- Will clenches his jaw, expelling little puffs of breath through his nose.

Merlin shakes his head. "I knew it," he chokes on an attempt to speak light. Puts on false affront "Even though I can actually watch out for meself, thank you. I'm perfectly capable, did fine when I was at uni," he speaks thus and flinches. He could strike himself. University is nothing like this, the situations are so wholly different, it's an insult to this place, this situation, and most of all to Will -

But his friend snorts, laughs, even as he winces after from the pain. "Right. That's why I had to...do this...for you. Can write a ... bloody paper but not even keep your feet, college boy" Will gestures weakly at the wound he's sustained and his voice fades as he jokes. 

Merlin is crying now, despite not wanting to. His features redden as tears glaze his cheeks and he doesn't even bother to swipe at his eyes to dash them away. His voice gets so thick he can hardly force any more words. But "Oh, god," he croaks out. "Will -"

"Someone else 'll... hafta watch out f' you now," his words are hitching, halting. Eyes slide off of Merlin's and back with seemingly immense effort. His chest is cold, his blood congealing as his face is losing all its colour. "You jus' try to take care of yourself till then. My friend." Will forces the words out past a sluggish tongue, eyes fixing as Merlin nods rapidly.

"Okay, I promise. I promise, ... Will?" His halting gasps for breath have stopped, his eyes, squeezed nearly shut from pain have fixed and opened "Will, come on, Will," Merlin takes both of his shoulders, hand sticking to the blood, he shakes his friend and hears no breath, slams ear to Will's chest and finds no heartbeat. "No," his last word is a broken syllable, almost a plea, as Merlin drops his face to his friend's immobile shoulder and his entire body convulses with sobs. 

He extends both arms and wraps them around Will's other side, hanging on as his body cools and the footsteps of the other soldier and a medical man run up, at last; fighting through the trench too late to reach them.

And still the battle rages on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sweet Will, bantering even as he dies...why did I decide to write this
> 
> I'll probably need to add more chapters because this is where the soldiers dig in and retain their position until 1918
> 
> Comments appreciated


	9. Chapter 9

BEF and the French battalions hunker down in the trench, working to enlarge it as thunder of guns echoes across the grass. Light blooms and men and horses scream still, but the sounds lessen, bleeding away and muffling in Merlin's ears. He keeps holding onto Will as the medic does a cursory check of his body; Merlin's eyes itch and his tears have dried into crusts of salt but the moment the medic softly asks for Will's full name and station, and to whom that information should be sent, Merlin drops his face into Will's side with a muffled whimper and gives his own mother's name. She is as much a mother to Will, and can tell the rest of the folks back home... 

Merlin ought to write, he knows, parents deserve to hear what happened to their sons - yet he balks, because something -illogically- tells him if he doesn't write, if he stays here with Will, not admitting that he's dead, then he isn't. He isn't gone, he's still here watching out for Merlin, holding him at night. A stolid presence with a jape on his lips for after any marching order or comment from an officer is given. His eyes lighting up upon seeing Merlin, how he shakes his head and laughs when Merlin goes off to find berries and herbs, to snare a rabbit and complement the meagre stew or porridge they are given for each meal; how he'd laugh at Merlin's attempts at French and tease him for being a college boy. Yet under the jokes remained affection and awe. _Look at you, ya've gone an' made something of yourself. I can't believe it._

But he gives his mother's name, and lets the medic take Will's body, because his better judgement says that he will start to smell in a few days, and it's best to let Will have a resting place that is not a muddy trench. Merlin swipes at his cheeks and eyes, reaching out and squeezing his friend's trailing hand as he is taken. "... Wait," he leaps up, grips Will by the arm and folds his hand over his chest. Rubs his best mate's hair in a final ruffle, Will's helmet clanging to fall and hit against a rock. He never tightened the neck strap. Said the cockeyed devil-may-care angle of an unstrapped helmet made him look dashing as he grinned at Merlin, teasing him for always cinching his own straps tight. With a broken chuckle Merlin scoops the helmet up and puts it upon Will's chest, getting out a "Guess you're taking the low road before me, then," with an attempt to smile. "Godspeed, Will." 

He lets go, then, at last. Long fingers dragging and trailing as Merlin presses his full lips together and presses that so familiar hand. He wants to say he'll see Will again soon, but that sentiment burns in Merlin's chest like the smoking barrel of a gun. He puts no stock in Fate else it would make him run mad to think twas Will's destiny to die here, now, instead of him; but he'd promised to take care of himself and he will not break that promise. He won't let Will down.

So Merlin straightens, and expels a wet gasp, straightening his shoulders and lifting his hand in salute before his knees give way and he crumples back below the elevation of the grassy field, clutching dirt and grasses, stone and mud - and a bit of cloth that had fallen out of Will's helmet. He feels the weave and takes it up, pressing it to his nose, his lips as if automatically. Tis not a conscious thought as he shuts his eyes and holds what could be a skull cap, a handkerchief, a piece of coat... Whatever it is, it's large enough to wrap around his neck and tie to drape down onto Merlin's chest and rest over his heart. He does not, cannot bear to look at this moment, but his frigid fingers fumble to tie a double knot and smooth the bit of cloth down before he catches up and clutches the barrel of his gun, drawing its length near to him as he leans against trench side, sliding down to bend his lanky legs, heaving out ragged breaths and hoping not to move anymore this night.

He would be glad not to need to move again soon at all. Is unclear on, if he must shift position, whether or not his legs could support his weight. And so he stiffly settles, hearing the screams of soldiers and roars of gunfire continue to split the air around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we don't know about Will's family in-show, I think of Hunith as his mother figure. I imagine he was with Merlin often enough as they grew up for that to be the case.
> 
> I also can't imagine Merlin in any universe without something of what he wore in canon, so I've given him a version of his neckerchief - in this case, a piece of his friend's love and protection. At least that's how I imagine it. 
> 
> Comments appreciated


	10. Chapter 10

The battle continues in a blur of nights and days, but the Germans are pushed farther back. Though the soldiers out of trenches are not shifted, the length and girth of the trenches themselves are widened; Merlin takes up a shovel after it is pushed into his hands, another soldier speaking gruffly about keeping on. The red-headed fellow, and the Frenchman with such sad eyes- the sight of both makes Merlin want to scream and cry, or even take a swing at them. Though nothing of his loss is any fault of theirs, he knows. His eyes burn and redden with tears as his cheeks do, and he doesn't want to fight unless to stop all the enemy with one immense blow. 

He cannot stand to imagine another boy bleeding his life away, as he cannot stand to see it; feels alone already in the shouting, in the pushing forward, in the night where he travels down into some profoundly dull space, grey and faint of air. Others drift past as they speak in words of bravery and daring, of steadfast belief. 

Merlin hears all as if from a distance; not departing the battle itself, but in the darkness after those words are silent blood and dirt spattered faces, sallow cheeks.

Cracking lips part to speak yet only the roar of guns and screams from the dying reverberate within Merlin's ears and head. Yet Will had not screamed, the last of loud sounds he had made was a warning to Merlin, to keep him from harm. As he curls on the cold earth and tries to sleep, that plays again in his thoughts, sounds and resounds.

All that he consistently thinks is this: if Will had been here to take care of him, then what can he now be here for?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is one's destiny in war? 
> 
> These questions are coming on quickly for Merlin, only because the shock of such a near loss would shake anyone to their core, I think. Besides the charge made at the German lines is likely the closest Merlin has thus far come to enemy soldiers and he sees them, realising fully they are people his own age... Whew. This is heavy stuff, mates
> 
> I've included imagery from Wilfred Owen's poem "Strange Meeting" and some ideas from his other poems in this chapter. Something of his sensitivity and way (from my research about him) puts me in mind of Merlin's transformation in show, and in the case of this au, the Great War.
> 
> Next chapter will hopefully be a trifle lighter, though he's having a hard time. Poor Merlin.
> 
> Comments appreciated


	11. Chapter 11

It is hailed down the BEF and French lines that reinforcements are coming, as this skirmish has gone on for days now - the precise number passed to Merlin is hazy, he's seen so many expanses of night in his head that he is not clear on the passing of actual days.

He looks up briefly from where he has pillowed his cheek on the dirt, the cloth out of Will's hat spread over half his face, metal helmet shoved low on his head. As if he could be swallowed in earth and need not fight. To fall asleep, or to bargain for a chance to go back time enough to keep Will alive, with him. As illogical as that is, he cannot help it. 

Merlin takes slight notice of the sounds of engines (such as they are, creaking wheels of wagons and wagoneers), and expects if not reinforcements there is yet the possibility of ammunition, or food. He holds out no hope for that, but only a wish for the victuals to be better. Though he fears as time goes on the rations will instead grow worse.

There are sounds of speech, now; does he hear _jollity_ in soldiers' calls? Twisting he spies members of the battalion shaking hands and speaking to fresh faces, must have come out of Paris and its suburbs. Bright eyes and strong grips and boys ready to go, so they think, sure. Merlin cannot stop a snort as he shifts back and rests his rifle on his knees, half-slouched still into the mud as these men trail and leap down into their places. 

He wants to tell them to go, to get out of here; shout that these trenches will swallow surely what they are, everything they are; but something twists sickly in his stomach and he keeps his head low. 

That is, until a boot stops beside his. Clean, laces unfrayed, only the slightest muss of mud upon the toe. And a voice, brash and strident, strong as the shove of the shoe. "Oi fellow, budge up there, will you? We're here to stop the Kaiser, not stamp ourselves into the mud."

Merlin snaps his eyes up to this newcomer, and sees a strong jaw, warm-skinned face, straight blond-brown hair. The slightest poke of eyeteeth between light pink lips, a grin bright and blinding in the grey and brown around him. Merlin feels his heart stutter a beat, but warmth flames in his cheeks and the tips of his ears as he laughs bitterly in response to those... obscenely jolly words. "Right," his voice feels rough, sounding deeper than usual in his own ears as it crawls jaggedly out of his throat. He hasn't talked much, these last few days. "That's it then, let's get up and at 'em." He widens his own eyes and adds "Go on and take the piss. You've had your fun, my friend." The final two words stick in Merlin's throat, and he coughs, ducks his head the slightest bit to control the burning in his eyes. _Not a friend. He's not Will. He's NOTHING like Will._

This fellow cocks his head, though, little lines crinkling at the outer corners of his storm-coloured eyes. "...Do I know you?" He asks, tone still on the surface light and conversational, yet something is cold as he responds to Merlin's tone. 

Merlin sighs, tries desperately not to roll his eyes at this ... clotpole. He shoves his hands into the side of the trench and pushes himself upright. "No, you don't, 'less you make a point to get the name and serial number of everyone in a trench when you arrive. But you don't SEEM like a general, so." He smacks his lips, holding out a hand to shake. "I'm Merlin."

Eyebrows crawling up, perhaps at the comment, perhaps the state of his hand, this other fellow sucks air between his teeth. "So I _don't_ know you," he says, eyes flashing. 

Merlin now does roll his eyes. He cannot help it. "Of course not."

"And yet you called me 'friend'," that gaze is accusing, it seems, and Merlin cannot take it. Not now, after this bit of talk reminds him painfully of his banter with Will. Not after he has lost his dearest mate in all the world. And here comes this man, with his audacity -

With a sharp jerk of his shoulder, Merlin snaps "That was my mistake." And then he continues, because what the hell? "I'd never have a friend who'd be such an ass."

The other man's eyes bulge as he stares as if in shock that someone would speak to him this way. It's comical, really; or would be if the light on his face isn't getting brighter and thus telling Merlin that a burning projectile is being launched at him, at them -

"Get DOWN!" Merlin lunges, his thinner frame hitting a stocky, well-muscled body. At least he grabs midriff and so manages to pull the other down, but that doesn't stop an outburst and a shove even as the screeching of what looks like cannon fire passes just over them.

"Get off me!"

Mouth agape where he's sprawled out half in the mud and half on this ungrateful fellow, Merlin takes a breath and sputters as he obediently rolls away

"I just saved your _life_ , you prat! But oh, don't even bother to thank me. Welcome to the trench," he gasps, heartbeat slowing from the painful lurch that started as he grasped this man's clothes, as what went through his head at the sight and realisation of a shot was _no this isn't happening, not like Will -_

But Merlin's spinning thoughts are halted by the confounded, frustrated tone:

"I have a name, you know! NOT prat. It's Arthur."

Twisting his mouth to the side, Merlin studies the other and cannot stop himself from responding "Eh, well. 'Prat' suits you better."

Mouth agape before gasping like a landed fish in outrage, "You've only just met me, Merlin!"

"Right." Merlin nods smartly. "And I can already tell."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well now Merlin's met this prattish clotpole ;P
> 
> Reinforcements were driven in from Paris, in cabs, for this particular battle (which I find kind of hilarious, guys get in and when the cabbie asks 'where to?' they're like 'the front, right over where there's gunfire'.)
> 
> Comments appreciated


	12. Chapter 12

After setting themselves to rights as much as they can, tugging coats and stuffing cloth of trousers into tops of boots, flicking, scrubbing dried mud away and settling to ready (and in Merlin's case, clean) their guns, Arthur looks over at Merlin again. 

Tis a glance of appraisal that seems to catch hold of him, and Merlin wonders what he sees, besides dark circles under blue eyes - like ice, he's always wanted them to be, but far more likely they're the soft hue of a robin's egg or that of the (so rarely seen in Britain) clear sky without clouds. His sharp cheekbones are prominent already but certainly appear even more so from lack of sumptuous nourishment. Mussed black hair, shorn short but definitely scraggly and dirty no matter what he does. He knows his wrists are bony, thin, but his hands are corded. Delicate long fingers - piano hands, his mother would have called them - work at the clip of his gun, cleaning and reloading in laconic fashion. His ears are still red, he can feel it; so obvious and over-large as they've always been. So big they are holding up his helmet, he's sure that's the way it seems. He had thought this would be different. All of it, or some. He realises anew that he was not ready for this war. 

Surely this...boy has not been out here too long. He seems so young, in the way his eyes sparked when he called Arthur a prat or how his teeth shone in a blinding-white smile, for example. Startling in this muddy space. So different from what Arthur expected, to be honest. His sister would most certainly laugh at him for being a fool, thinking they'd spend each day mowing down Germans walking through soft grasses and fields of clover, lovely lasses throwing flowers to them and calling them heroes.... Right. Arthur hadn't quite believed that, he didn't have the imagination for it; but he did hazard a guess that someone was going to be grateful. Surely they would have places to sleep and adequate, if not ample, food? The glory of combat, the sweetness of fighting for one's country and her allies, of saving the world's soul -

But gazing at this thin gawky little fellow (or rather, he's just the slightest bit taller than Arthur but he doesn't want to admit that), Arthur feels a clenching in his chest and asks, despite his irritation of being scoffed at earlier "Merlin. How long have you been here?"

Merlin snorts, fumbling in his breast pocket for something Arthur recognises as a pack of smokes. He doesn't seem to be in a hurry to actually smoke them; instead smooths a bit of cloth tied round his neck in strange fashion, like he's soothing himself. The bit of cloth is strange in itself, at least, the manner in which it is tied - seems something an American cattle rancher might wear. 

The thin fellow tries to lift a cig and clench it between his teeth, fingers shaking with what must be cold. He gives up after only a moment with a heaving breath and shoots a smile - not directed in or full of bitterness this time - at Arthur. "Long enough, heh. Or too long already, more like. Arthur." He almost whispers the words.

The way his voice catches and the sound of his tone as he speaks Arthur's name should not elicit any particular response, yet somehow does - Arthur feels an almost tickling sensation in his chest. He rubs at the nape of his neck and offers a nod. "Feels that way, eh?" He manages. Not looking at Merlin, shuffling to settle down and rest his knee in the dirt to still ready himself to rise and shoot immediately as he needs.

"Yes," the other responds, voice now barely a breath. "Yes it does."

 _Why_ Arthur feels the need to stay and talk - he could move anywhere along the trench, really, it houses their battalion for metres on either side; he doesn't have to remain beside this bloke who'd called him clotpole and prat and who really doesn't seem in the mood for a rousing discussion about honour or justice or evil entrenched within the hearts of men - Yet somehow, there is something about this boy. "Don't look old enough to be like that," Arthur manages, continuing their conversation he knows not why, and gets those clear blue eyes zeroing in on him. 

"... Right," with a half-smile pulling his lips and flashing those brilliant teeth in a manner almost charming: "Meanwhile _you've_ got off now not just being prattish, but supercilious." 

"Big word," Arthur huffs. "Sure you know what it means?" 

"Condescending." 

"Very good," 

"Patronising." 

"Well it doesn't quite mean that," 

"Oh. No, these are other things you are." 

"H _ang_ on - !" Arthur splutters. "You still don't know a bloody thing about me!" 

"No, nothing except that you look at me and assume I dunno the meaning of such a big word, and that I've got the time or willingness or need to move out of your way soon's you get here when I've been in this trench only days yet 've lost somebody -" voice catching, Merlin presses his lips together firmly and shakes his head. No reason to go into that with this prat. "But," he coughs, "to answer whatever you were trying to say, clotpole, I don't look old enough to, for what? Be aware of how utterly mad people are?" 

"I was going to say 'be so jaded', but sure." 

"Pff," Merlin expels a breath that could be one of exasperation or amusement; far more likely the former. But he is surprised when the other clears his throat and his voice goes lower, deep and serious. 

"You lost somebody?"

He doesn't ask who, doesn't go on about it. 

"Yes," Merlin swallows. "Me best mate." He nearly lets loose a sob but holds it back, teeth catching on the flesh of his lower lip as he looks at his hands, tries not to let them tremble, tries not to see Will's face - 

But he is baffled and gratified by the shuffle closer before the snapping sound of a stricken match precedes a tiny flame as, tugging Merlin's hand and the cigarette dangling from his fingers close to him in order to block potential wind, Arthur lights it and speaks in a manner simple, honest. His tone of voice is sonorous and sincere: "I'm sorry to hear that, Merlin. Truly." His hands are rough, calloused as they cup briefly around Merlin's, and Merlin wonders if he oughtn't retract a few of his more-or-less snap judgements. 

He sneaks a look at the other man's face as Arthur speaks, and spies nothing in expression that is prattish or condescending at all. No, he looks - compassionate. Gaze is soft in the flickering matchlight. Almost kind.

Merlin lifts his cigarette in a cheersing motion and silently offers one to Arthur in a sort of peace. With one side of his lips tugging upwards, Arthur accepts, fingers catching Merlin's gently in almost a caress before he cups the fag in his hands and lights it, no longer holding gazes with Merlin. 

It could very well be a trick of the light, but he could swear he saw cheeks flushing more than a trifle red.

Well then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter sort of goes through both Merlin's and Arthur's thoughts and reactions to each other. Morgana is Arthur's sister here - half or full, you be the judges :) I think there would be plenty of snide sibling banter, which is part of the reason why Arthur isn't ditching Merlin; he's used to that tenor of talk.
> 
> I personally abhor smoking, but it seemed common in the days of the first world war. I don't think Merlin would be an avid smoker by any means, but perhaps (as in this case) he wanted to light a cigarette for something to do. And I dunno, the idea of Arthur's touch being gentle as he lights Merlin's cigarette with a match... it's meaningful to me. What do you think?
> 
> Some words in this chapter are taken almost verbatim from [this scene](https://youtu.be/Ifymp94h64Y) because I think it's hilarious. I love sassy Merlin so much
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	13. Chapter 13

Battle has been going on for half a fortnight now. The thought of that fact hits Merlin deep in his gut, clenching in his abdomen and cramping as he thinks how Will had gone practically its first night, and he'd been alone until shoved roughly into his space in the trench was this prattish loud turnip head who still hasn't left him on his lonesome. Not even gone down the trench to make a place for himself, no; for some reason he is sticking next to Merlin, even plunking bedding down.

Why, Merlin hasn't got a clue. 

Arthur is sharp-eyed and efficient with his weapon, despite the fact Merlin has to clean his gun for him and pass over ammunition because the clotpole can't seem to do those sorts of things for himself - Merlin has begun to nag about it, prompting the other to respond with "Shut up."

They scoff and sneer at one another, but the moment with the cigarette stays in the back of Merlin's head. Even as he grows increasingly frustrated by Arthur's attitude and how not only does he act as if he's better, like a noble or something, which is ridiculous - this isn't the dark ages (even if could've fooled Merlin a bit on that just by the carnage and terror thus far) but Arthur has bravado, like doing this for their country is the grandest adventure possible. That, in particular, gets on Merlin's nerves.

Rather, it crawls beneath his skin because the bravado is familiar in a manner painful; it's reminiscent of his japes with Will, how they would go on about the multitudinous fantastic manners in which they or other people might die for their country (intermixed with that question of, so is it the worst thing possible to die on the privy?) Merlin thinks emphatically no, and when he thinks upon death now his palms grow clammy-cold and he recalls Will's weight in his arms and blood on his hands and -

"Merlin, don't be such a girl! Get that rock over here to make a weapon stand will you?"

With a wrenching sound in the back of his throat Merlin blinks rapidly to see Arthur staring at him as if he'd been speaking for some time. He gestures impatiently as bullets whiz across the trench just above their heads. He is one for being a marksman, at least that's what Merlin notes as he goes to haul the rock indicated. To settle his sweating and nerves, he grouses "Couldn't get this for yourself, dollophead?"

"No," the smile Arthur offers seems almost feral, a baring of teeth. Wild glint appears in his eye as men bawl out orders and call to their fellows, as the horses are set for another cavalry charge _No, please, not again,_ Merlin thinks desperately, almost missing the rest of Arthur's reply: "...you been here a span of days more than I have, that's what you said innit? So serving's what you're good at."

"Arrogant," Merlin breathes. "You only get through this" he whirls his wrist to gesture not only to where they are but to the trench, this place in the countryside of France, and the war in general "- by using your training and - having someone to watch your back."

One of Arthur's eyebrows shoots up. "I have been training my whole life," he retorts. 

"Really, you? Fighting since birth, eh?" Merlin's tone is flat until he lowers his chin as if deferential. "I suppose I should ask how long you've been training to be a prat, because that is the difference between using skills and having someone 'round who is willing to watch out," he mutters. With a mock-obsequious arm flourish and head inclination after a moment, Merlin amends his words with a sardonic little bow "...sorry, I mean how long have you been training to be a prat, my lord?"

"Insolent," Arthur's tone is astonished, but the gleam in his eyes holds something that Merlin responds to. He realises this bickering is in a strange way soothing. It keeps him grounded in the present moment. Even when his subsequent comment is cut off before he begins speaking by the screaming blasts from cannons overhead. Arthur flattens his body and rolls, throwing himself into Merlin to move him before taking aim at the soldier manning the cannon.

Jaw clenched, gaze sharp, Arthur lets bullets fly, and subsequently without any hesitation hauls himself up and over the edge of the trench, having scanned the ground before it to see a body crumpled close. Movement swift, he ducks and rummages at the belt and bandoleer of the man, still in death.

"What are you - for god's sake, Arthur!" Merlin hisses with his heart in his throat and eyes wide, reaching out and wanting more than anything to beckon frantically. He doesn't want to see anyone else die in front of him, today or any day. A fruitless wish, for sure; but not only can Merlin not beckon due to the possibility of being targeted and shot at, but Arthur ignores his sharp whisper, scoops up an object that he gets off the dead soldier's sodden belt and rips a thin part off its top with his teeth. A pin. He's gotten hold of a grenade.

Shoulders set and face impassive save for the pursing of lips and slight ballooning of his cheeks as he throws, Arthur sends the smoking grenade into the sky. It falls in an arc towards the German line, and shouting precedes a shot going off that Arthur does not hesitate to beat out by throwing his body into Merlin's and sending the pair of them tumbling into the bottom of their trench.

"Now then," Arthur's face is set and inscrutable as Merlin lifts his head with a groan, finding himself spread-eagle in mud and water, his back slowly growing soaked as a sound of explosiveness splits the air around. Arthur holds out a hand to haul him up as he shifts into a crouching position once the grenade's roar dies. "We're even. Or rather, I think I saved your idiot life twice just now." His teeth peek between his lips in a growing grin as he squeezes Merlin's hand, having clasped it to help him rise. "... I think you owe me."

Merlin groans again, head nearly thudding back into the mud. He is sure the _last_ thing he wants in this war is to be in debt to Arthur.

And yet here they are.

Something tells Merlin he may never hear the end of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live for banter. Also, Arthur is a brutal fighter with some hilarious facial expressions in-show that I wanted to reference. Plus, he'd definitely save Merlin's life and be thinking "this person is such an idiot"
> 
> I actually think this piece can end here, what are your thoughts?
> 
> Comments appreciated


End file.
